


Rome

by ishafel



Category: These Old Shades - Georgette Heyer
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2005
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All roads end in Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baranduin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/gifts).



"I find the cards have turned against me," Justin says, leaning back in his chair. His pale, ringed hands are steady-swordsman's hands-but his eyes are shadowed. "You'll take my note, of course, Robicheaux?"

The Frenchman nods. "Absolutement. The word of an Alistair is his bond." He is very drunk-but not so drunk as Justin. His voice is cool, but a hot-headed man could find offense there; an edge of mockery underlying the politeness. Justin is not fool enough to take him up on it, even tonight, when he has been as much a fool as Hugh has ever seen him.

"Your arm, mon cher," Justin is asking, and Hugh forestalls Robicheaux, hauls him to his feet with a little more roughness than is truly necessary. He is angry and afraid and disappointed all at once; a part of him wants to hit Justin and a part of him wants to leave him. It will be beginning to be light in three hours. It would not be so difficult to find a fast horse: to ride straight from Rome to Calais and catch the first ship to Dover and be done with the whole sordid mess. 

It was not Hugh's sin that exiled them from London, that ran at their heels as they crossed the Continent, that made Justin drink as Hugh had never seen him drink and play for a stake he did not have to lose. It was not Hugh's battle, but he could not stop himself from fighting. And then they were outside, stumbling on the rough cobblestones, and his hand on Justin's elbow that kept the other man from falling. Justin, whose grace was legendary.

There was no sense in being angry with Justin, of course; not before morning, and perhaps not even then. It would take a day or two to get Justin sober, even if he could be made to listen. Hugh had been friends with him far to long to hold out much hope. Justin went his own way, and always had; usually it was enough for Hugh to follow. Usually Justin was leading him somewhere he wanted to go.

Tonight he is as angry as he could remember being. He is so angry that there in the street he hisses at Justin, "What is it you're trying to do, destroy yourself?" and shakes him a little. Justin, being perfectly drunk, and inscrutable at the best of times, does not respond, and after a moment Hugh begins to walk again. 

Their lodging in Rome is not so different than the other places they have stayed, disreputable hotels and tavernas and furnished apartments, let by the night or the week. It is dreary, and not especially clean, and not at all convenient. But Hugh is not a wealthy man, and did not have time to visit his bank before they fled from London, with the girl's relations baying for Justin's blood. And Justin has won a dozen fortunes, and lost them all.

They have a little money, beyond what Justin lost to Robicheaux in a careless hand that Hugh had not the sense to stop. They will not starve; they can pay their shot and have enough left to book passage to the next city. What city that will be, Hugh has no idea. Justin is as likely to settle on Saint Petersburg as Vienna.

They fumble their way up the narrow stair, Hugh half carrying Justin. The servants have gone to bed, and the lamp by the door has burned precariously low. It is neither night nor morning, but some cold gray blending of the both. Justin sprawls onto the sofa, and Hugh busies himself with hanging his cloak neatly, and clearing the litter of glasses and bottles from the table. All of his fine rage has burned into despair. He has never been able to stay properly angry at Justin.

When he is finished he bends over Justin, intending to pull off his cloak and boots and leave him for his man. Justin's eyes are closed and his breathing is steady; he smells very strongly of brandy and Hugh winces in sympathy, thinking that he will likely have a devilish head in the morning. And a worse temper: the Ton call him Satanas for a reason, and he will not be happy to have humiliated himself in front of the Frenchman, whom he despises.

He is struggling with Justin's boots when a hand closes around his wrist. No one can say the Alistairs are not hardheaded. "Justin," he says. It is not a question, only a-recognition.

"Don't, Hugh." There is defeat in Justin's voice, and something else that Hugh never thought to hear there. Regret. What he did in England, he is sorry for: Justin Alistair whom they say has never been sorry for anything. "Just-please, don't. Not tonight. Can you not pretend, tonight, that you are still my friend and not my keeper?" 

"Justin," he says again. "I don't think that, you must not think that I do--." Justin's grip loosens on his wrist, and for a moment he thinks that the man has lost consciousness. It might be for the best, if he has; it would most likely spare them an awkward moment in the morning. Though Justin may not remember any of this, given the quantity of alcohol he has got outside of.

But Justin's eyes open again, and this time they meet Hugh's. "I don't know what you think, Hugh," he says quietly. "I've never known. How can you bear to be in my company when I can barely stand it myself?"

Justin is drunk, and not himself. An honorable man would withdraw. But Hugh has never claimed to be an honorable man. "I love you," he says. "There is no one else whose company I would prefer." 

Justin laughs at him, which is horrifying. Hugh had expected any of a dozen reactions; this he had not imagined. "You don't, you know," he says, and every word is like a knife. "You don't even know what you're saying. And be glad you don't; it's not a thing I'd wish on anyone."

"Isn't it?" Hugh asks. "Who do you think you are, to say such a thing to me?" A decent man would have vacated the field long ago, but then a decent man would not have stayed so long by the side of Justin Alistair, Duke of Avon. And Hugh does not fight very often, because in his estimation there are few things worth fighting for. But he will fight for this.

He has been, all this time, on his knees before Justin. Now he rises, and places both hands on Justin's shoulders. And leans down and kisses Justin as thoroughly as he can. It takes Justin only a second to begin to kiss him back, and Hugh realizes then why it is women find libertines so appealing. Justin tastes of brandy and his mouth is as hard and ruthless as a whore's. Hugh's body begins to respond despite his mind's attempts to deny it.

He breaks off the kiss, drawing back to look Justin in the face. "Tell me," he says, "tell me you do not wish for me to do this."

The sound Justin makes might be a sob or a moan, but Hugh knows him well enough to know it is a strangled laugh and is comforted by it. "Oh," Justin answers him, "you know I never could tell you that, Hugh." 

And though Hugh is as sober as Justin is drunk, he never remembers what happens next. Only moments of it, lit by the flickering flame of the single candle. Justin's fingers on the buttons of his coat, eager and careless as a child's. The hollow of Justin's shoulder, so fragile-seeming, and in truth so strong. Justin's body beneath his, white and delicate and flexible as a cat's. The moment when he climaxes, and cannot breathe, and Justin's hands are gentle on his back.

In the end they sleep where they are, once again clothed, in the narrow place between the sofa and the banked fire. The floor is hard and the room is cold, and the sun wakes them before the servants can discover them. They are shy with each other, like schoolboys who woke to find all rules have been revoked. They eat breakfast in silence and without touching one another. 

They do not speak of it, then or ever, but when the time comes to leave Rome, Hugh returns to England, to the life he left behind. And Justin makes haste slowly to Vienna, and from Vienna, Paris, and in Paris he meets his destiny. It is a thing best half forgotten, all the awkward parts fallen away, so that only the beauty remains. There is no way such a thing could flourish. Not between the Duke of Avon and Mr. Davenant, not without being spoiled.

And if, in later years, the two men meet upon occasion without the Little Duchess there to chaperone? Let us leave this thing to happen in candlelight, behind closed doors. Let Rome keep her secrets, as she has always done.


End file.
